my dear sister,—What with starting a new yoke of oxen, “shee-a-baack!”
and ditching my pasture-ground, I have had no time to write before.
The oxen are doing finely, and are universally admired; they work very steadily and are up to anything.
I have sold five bushels of potatoes, many of which show some signs of the rot which I prophesy will be very prevalent this fall; there never was, I suppose, such a wet summer since the flood.
We have had this week new potatoes for the table, corn and beans, and a few tomatoes are ripening.
My flowers are doing finely; my heliotrope is magnificent, and portulaccas begin to make a show.
I have a gentleman from Cork now living under my roof, who is engaged in draining the pasture; and the monotony was enlivened the other night by an Italian with images to sell, who spent the night in my barn and refreshed the Ashland air with the classic accents of
Tuscany.
His home was
Florence.
‘
Ade;, from your affectionate brother.’